


Games Afoot

by avani



Category: Ever After (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: In every world, in every way, Henry and Danielle find one another.
Relationships: Danielle de Barbarac/Prince Henry (Ever After)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Games Afoot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zilentdreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/gifts).



Henry admits it makes for a good story: the lonely, unloved child, rescued by an eccentric mentor and whisked away to a magical castle. He only wishes it weren’t responsible for ruining his life.

Quite simply, before arriving at Hogwarts, Henry expected to be the most exceptional, most well-educated student there; and then he discovered Danielle. Depending on who told the tale, she once was accustomed to sleep in a cottage, or cupboard, or a cinder-pit—either way, somewhere small and common—until on her eleventh birthday, a wizard knocked on her door. That this wizard happened to be Leonardo, who Henry had previously considered his own particular friend and dispenser of rock cakes and worldly wisdom, only exacerbates the problem. Danielle herself never mentions the circumstances of her childhood if she can help it, not that Henry has ever asked. He doubted that he can, especially as he’s not spoken above six complete sentences to her in as many years of shared education.

In part, this is understandable. Henry had been Sorted into Slytherin, as were all the DuRoys, while Danielle can be found all the way across the castle in North Tower (though, Henry thinks to himself more frequently than he should, judging by the sheer number of books she devoured, it could have just as easily been West). It was a pity, then, Danielle had once been heard to say, that he lacked any noticeable ambition; only imagine the good he could do in the world, with cunning and connections like his!

Henry’s mouth had, at the time, worked open and shut. “You forget yourself,” he said, before ruining any semblance of dignity by adding a petulant, “And besides, that’s not _fair_.” (Together, these make up sentences four and five of their acquaintance.)

It would not be so bad if Danielle were not...Danielle. She swims alone in the Great Lake, clambers to the very top of the Astronomy Tower, and frees unhappy house-elves without a moment’s fear. And when she flies—oh, how she flies.

At the moment Henry is mostly attempting not to think of this, as he nervously grips his new racing broom. Across the field, Danielle is laughing with two of her fellow team members, before zooming into position in preparation for the game’s beginning. She hovers, maddeningly, almost directly in front of Henry, and he grits his teeth.

“Wager you a Pumpkin Pasty I catch the Snitch before you make a single goal,” he mutters, barely loud enough to be heard. That ought to be inexpensive enough that Danielle can afford it—and more importantly, it means she’ll have to keep her eyes on him. If so, the world can ignore him in favor of her, all with his blessing.

But Danielle, honey-colored hair loose about her shoulders, only muses aloud, “Do you know? I’ve never cared for pumpkin,” before the whistle blows, and she soars into the sky, still laughing.

Henry can’t help it; his fingers reach out for her, and meet only thin air. 

*

“Wake _up_!” a small voice shrieks in Danielle’s ear. She startles, but it is only Hythloday. She yawns and stretches; it seems she has fallen asleep by the fireplace yet again. She can’t bring herself to mind, however, not when it’s warm and lovely, with Father’s last gift resting nearby—

“What will the Baroness say?” Hythloday wriggles about in an irritable circle. This morning he’s a barbet, a form he’s preferred more and more; a month ago, he was a greyhound, and a month before that, a goose. Danielle confesses herself disappointed; but then again, it’s clear there's no justice in the world. If there were, Marguerite’s Phaedrus would take the form of a shrew rather than an eye-catching peacock, Jacqueline’s Volens not manifest as a cumbersome farmhorse, and Danielle’s settle as anything at all, the better to ward off Stepmother’s taunts. _So old, Danielle, and still with an unsettled daemon? Clearly the unfortunate result of growing up unladylike and motherless._

The walk to the orchards is pleasant--it's the least objectionable thing about her stepfamily demanding fresh fruit for their breakfasts every morning. Danielle enjoys the peace of being alone except for Hythloday....and, apparently, the gentleman currently attempting to steal one of their horses. Instinctively, she reaches for one of the apples in her apron, Hythloday hot on her heels; her aim is true as ever.

She has all of a second to be satisfied before she sees the ink-black hen perched into the saddle behind the man. That is all it takes--the flash of recognition when the stranger unwraps himself from his cloak is only confirmation of what she already knows, for only one family boasts the royal rooster as a symbol of their souls. Danielle has just accosted the Crown Prince of France. 

Hythloday whimpers, but surprisingly doesn't whine; instead, he curls up in her lap as Danielle throws herself to the ground, cringing. Her best attempt at an apology is met with the prince's sardonic rejoinder, and Danielle has resorted to outright groveling when Prince Henry squares his shoulders and stammers, "Then speak of this to no one, and I shall be lenient."

If he can be generous, so can she. "We have other horses, Your Highness. Younger, if that is your wish."

It's the hen that replies, deep voice wistful. Sunlight ripples off her feathers and reveals as many colors as Phaedrus' plumage--she's almost as beautiful as the Prince himself. "We wish for nothing more than to be free of our gilded cage," she says, and Danielle's heart twists. She knows what it is to feel trapped.

The Prince rides off to locations unknown, and only then does Danielle unbend, her stomach still roiling with what she assumes is fright. "Well, he's gone at least," she reassures Hythloday—only to be met with uncharacteristic silence. It takes only a glance to guess why. 

An ermine, snow-white and perfect, rests in her lap. With terrible certainty, Danielle knows this is the last form Hythloday will ever take. 

*

Patience is one of Henry's best qualities, along with undeniable charm, and so the fact that he stops short at the doors of the monastery has nothing to do with his dread of the imminent lecture of the conduct of a prince that some visiting scholar of another has in store for him. No, instead, he tilts his head out at the oddly dressed young scholar attempting to enter the public hall out of sheer curiosity and concern for public well-being. As is his query of: "You there! With the hat."

The scholar cringes. "Yes?" he says in a voice at least two octaves higher than any grown man's ought to be. 

Henry raises an eyebrow. "It is customary," he reminds the brat, "to doff one's hat in the presence of royalty."

"I. Um. I have an unsightly wart, Your Highness. And the malady of baldness."

Oh, Henry thinks grimly, it won't be that easy to escape. He would swear that he knows every courtier in the province, even those of an intellectual bent. He finds he does not take to surprises well. "As do many of our courtiers, lad. I assure you my eyes are accustomed to such affront."

A cough. "I doubt that it is so, " says the scholar, now attempting to back away. 

"Boy. Remove your hat."

The boy--or no boy, not really--removes his hat to reveal a mass of brown hair. "I told Gustave it wouldn't work," she says. 

Henry, looking at the way her doublet hangs down to her knees and her hose bunches up at the ankles, wonders if this Gustave might be something of a madman to propose such a thing. "Quite," he says. 

She frowns at him. "Though in truth I should not have to resort to such measures to hear the lecture if it were only open to all, not merely monks and men. All those books and all that learning--wasted!"

"I assure you, madame, were it in my power, I would hasten to make it so," he considers adding an ironic bow, but reconsiders: her eyes might flash in an entrancing manner, but he has no desire to provoke her further. 

"And so it is," she retorts, "for are you not the Prince of this land?"

A fair point, Henry thinks. In all his years of study, not one tutor ever demonstrated the passion and interest she has shown in listening to a single lecture. But it is too late; this extraordinary young woman has tired of his excuses, and begun to walk away. He considers running after her, and thinks better of it. 

"Who is that?" Henry finds himself asking Laurent, who stands stone-faced nearby. 

"Danielle de Barbarac, sire," is the response. "Darling of her father Auguste, and indulged beyond measure." Laurent smiles slightly. "I am acquainted with the family, particularly the youngest daughter of the house, Jacqueline. If Your Highness wishes..."

By now Laurent's smile has metamorphosed into an outright smirk, but Henry hardly cares. "He does, indeed." 

*

As dearly as Danielle loves Gustave, simply he can drive her half-mad, especially at times like now, when he smiles blankly back at her with no grasp of the gravity of the situation. Such is the lot of anyone unlucky enough to befriend a child of Apollo, even if she happens to be Head Counselor of the Athena Cabin.

"I really don't think he's that bad," Gustave says, carefully dabbing another smear of paint on his canvas, and Danielle heaves yet another sigh. Gustave had been the first friend she made when first she came to camp, reeling from both the death of her father and the discovery that she had inherited more attributes from the mysterious mother she'd never known than a set of gray eyes, but there were some things he simply couldn't understand. That was all right; she expected there was some things about him that she couldn't understand. Friendship was more important than like-mindedness. 

"That," she says, "is because you haven't had the misfortune to spend hours on end showing him around camp. Nothing is half so good as it is back home in New Rome, under the praetorship of Prince Henry."

"Is he a prince, really?"

Danielle snorts indelicately. "He might as well be. Strutting about, just because he's the son of the King of the Gods--I've never met anyone so arrogant in my life. The less said about their thoughts on celestial bronze, the better--why, Henry had the utter gall to tell me he couldn't see how I managed to slay three drakons and a chimera with just my sword. What's worse, they own all that foundries for Imperial gold, the children of New Rome, and take no pride in working it!" 

They are walking contradictions, each and every one of the delegation sent to Camp Half-Blood, and what's worse, Henry only stares at her when she isn't meant to be looking and tells her she is no better herself. 

"Somehow," Gustave murmurs, "I'm sure you don't find him as unpleasant as that." And that, too, is one more infuriating trait of Apollo campers--that smugness they have with every statement, as though speaking prophecy. "Besides, he likes my work."

"He likes--you've met?"

Gustave nods. "He thinks _Study in Haystacks, Number Five through Seven_ were inspired."

All the more reason, Danielle thinks, why Henry's opinions are questionable, but certainly she can't share that with Gustave.

"Regardless," she says firmly, "he and I share as little in common as a bird and a fish, and nothing will ever change that."

In response Gustave only sets down his brush, lips twitching. "And I suppose if you saw your Henry again, you'd simply.."

Danielle draws herself up. "I would walk right up to him and say, 'You, sir, are insufferable--and regretably, nothing may change that." There, an appropriately devastating assessment of his many flaws.

Gustave's smile is outright gleeful. Danielle's heart sinks. "Good! Because here's your big chance. He’s headed this way."

Danielle yelps and ducks for cover.

*

The band is barely starting to warm up when Henry enters. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make, if it means he can have his favorite table, the one far enough from the balcony to avoid the worst of the cigarette smoke, but close enough to the door to make a quick exit if needs be. They might, tonight; they have before.

He almost misses the contact when she enters, draped in a dowdy tan suit. Her hair is tied back with a scarf; her lipstick is a shade too bright to be her own. For God’s sake, there might be a war on, but that’s no excuse, Henry thinks.

She stumbles to his table, fresh-faced and fawn-eyed, and whispers: “More?”

The word is pronounced as the proper name rather than the common noun. Henry feels a smile forming and with it, the first faint stirrings of interest.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Thomas.”

He doesn’t expect to see her eyes crease with amusement rather than anxiety. He’s glad for that. She sets down her suspiciously flat purse, crosses her hands together on the table, and asks him if he won’t dance.

This, Henry can do. Would that the Resistance promote attendance at parties and a waltz with a pretty young woman instead of certain death and dismemberment; he’s sure they might snare more recruits that way.

It’s not all fun and games, though. Henry’s dance partner leans close, ostensibly whispering sweet nothings into his ear. In reality she’s muttering quotes; as he whirls her about, Henry’s mind races to pin them down to the chapter of Utopia from which they originate.

7, 6, 8, 9, 9, 1. An easy enough code to pass on to the next fellow.

The music changes, crooning now, and Henry is confident enough in his not-inadequate memory to pull his partner closer still before she can offer to repeat the whole dreary chain. 

“Not many girls,” he prompts, “would come to a place like this.”

“Wouldn’t they?” she says, maddeningly opaque.

Henry, however, persists. “Are you coy on purpose or do you honestly refuse to tell me your name?”

She stops short. “No.” All too soon she realizes that to do so will leave her trampled. “Yes.”

He bites his cheek to keep from laughing aloud and extends a hand to her. She takes it, after the longest moment of his life, and returns into his arms. He thinks dazedly that, lack of cosmetics and decent clothes aside, she’s like no one he’s ever known; he thinks he’s well on his way to falling in love.

Henry rasps, knowing why she won’t, knowing it’s next to suicide in their profession: “Please, I beg of you, a name. Any name.”

She’s not as idiotic as he is—or maybe she’s more so. She pulls away from him gently, snatches up her purse, and stammers: “I — I fear the only name to leave you with... is Nicole Lancret.”

She’s disappeared into the night before he can say another word, and taken his heart with her. But if there’s one thing Henry can be sure if, it’s this: that he will find her again, somehow, come what may.

**Author's Note:**

> * In fairness, given the French setting, I suppose a magical AU! Henry and Danielle should instead attend Beauxbatons--but I hope, given the widespread British accents on everyone and medieval-France-in-name-only setting, that the reader can forgive me.  
> * Hythloday is the surname of the protagonist of More's Utopia, and means roughly "speaker of nonsense."  
> * The official animal of the Valois dynasty was indeed the Gallic rooster.


End file.
